Within these two months, that's a month before
This bond expires, I do expect return

Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
SHYLOCK.

O father Abram, what these Christians are,
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect
The thoughts of others!-Pray you, tell me this;
If he should break his day, what should I gain
By the exaction of the forfeiture?

A pound of man's flesh taken from a man
Is not so estimable, profitable neither,
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
ANTONIO.

Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
SHYLOCK.

Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
Give him direction for this merry bond;
And I will go and purse the ducats straight;
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave; and presently

I will be with you.

ANTONIO.

Hie thee, gentle Jew.

(Exit Shylock.)

The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

BASSANIO.

I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

ANTONIO.

Come on: in this there can be no dismay;

My ships come home a month before the day. (Exeunt.)

ACT II.

SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor, all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa, and their train. MOROCCO.

Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love,

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine

Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love, I swear
The best-regarded virgins of our clime

Have lov'd it too: I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
PORTIA.

In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
But if my father had not scanted me
And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look'd on yet
For my affection.

MOROCCO.

Even for that I thank you:
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets,
To try my fortune. By this scimitar
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for
prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his page;

And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.

PORTIA.

You must take your chance

And either not attempt to choose at all,

Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward

In way of marriage: therefore be advis'd.
MOROCCO.

Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA.

First, forward to the temple: after dinner

Your hazard shall be made.

MOROCCO.

To make me blest or cursed'st among men.

Good fortune then!

(Cornets, & exeunt.

SCENE II. Venice. A street. Enter Launcelot. LAUNCELOT.

Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says, 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo,' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son,'-or rather an honest woman's son;-for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;-well, my conscience says, 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your

reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel:-I will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I will run.

GOBBO.

(Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket.)

Master, young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?

LAUNCELOT.(Aside)

O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

GOBBO.

Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?

LAUNCELOT.

Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house.

GOBBO.

By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

LAUNCELOT.

Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

(Aside) Mark

me now; now will I raise the waters.—Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO.

No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.

LAUNCELOT.

Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.

GOBBO.

Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.

LAUNCELOT.

But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO.

Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

LAUNCELOT.

Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

GOBBO.

Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT.

Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?Do you know me, father?

GOBBO.

Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?

LAUNCELOT.

Do you not know me, father?

GOBBO.

Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT.

Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may; but, at the length, truth will

out.

GOBBO.

Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.

LAUNCELOT.

Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

GOBBO.

I cannot think you are my son.

LAUNCELOT.

I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man; and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

GOBBO.

Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got!